Crossfire
by RockyMountainGirl
Summary: Strange things are happening in London. Watson is reunited with someone he believed to be dead (guess who?). Following a string of odd murders, the duo soon realize that they are caught up in the middle of a battle much larger than either of them could've imagined when they are approached by two Americans and a man who claims to be an angel.


**Crossfire**

**Synopsis:** A year and a half has passed since Sherlock fell from glory… and a hospital rooftop. Dr. John Watson has since gotten a job working in the ER center of a hospital. When a John Doe who was found in an alley with several broken ribs is brought in, Watson is shocked to realize the victim has a familiar face: Sherlock's. Upon waking, Sherlock tells John he was following a string of very public murders, with each victim having odd symbols carved into their chests. Soon, the duo realize that they are caught up in the middle of a battle much larger than either of them could've imagined when they are approached by two Americans and a man who claims to be an angel.

**Author's Note: **This opening chapter is largely exposition to set up the rest of the story. It gives some insight to how John has been living since the events of Reichenbach, introduces the crime/mystery that will be the center of the plot, and of course, the return of Sherlock. Reviews are always appreciated!

**Chapter 1:**

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

John opened his eyes in the gray, pre-dawn light and reached over to turn off the alarm. Sitting up, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and tried to get rid of the images from his last nightmare that were still swimming around in his brain.

It had been over a year, but every night he saw Moriarty's cold smile, Sherlock's silhouette on the rooftop, his falling figure, his broken body on the sidewalk…

With a deep sigh, John lifted himself from the bed and made his way to the closet. He got dressed in a pair of dark green scrubs and walked into the kitchen, turning on the small television set on the counter.

"It looks like the rain will continue throughout today." John looked up at the weather woman on the news as he buttered a piece of toast. "While rain is certainly normal for this time of year, this set of storms has been very unusual. Here are some pictures sent in from viewers. This picture, taken from Hyde Park shows the clouds that actually appear pitch black. This was shortly before what was described as a small tornado by witnesses occurred before dispersing in a matter of minutes." John stared at the picture. Sure enough, the sky was black, and the clouds seemed swirling and writhing, almost alive. But tornadoes in London? While not unheard of- there was the London tornado in 2006- it seemed very unlikely. Also, there had been no large storm systems that would cause such turbulence. John knew enough about meteorology to know that this was not normal.

The pictures continued to slide across the screen. One was from a tourist, showing the same strange black, swirling clouds hovering around Big Ben. Another outside a small café showed a thin stream of the clouds descending into a nearby alley. John's brow furrowed as he continued to study the images on the screen.

"We will continue to monitor this strange weather and keep you up to date on any developments". The screen returned to the weather woman and John was jerked back to the present moment. He glanced at his watch, grabbed his toast, put on his raincoat, and turned off the television as he made his way to the door.

The wind nearly knocked him over as he opened the door, the rain stinging his face. Turning his coat up against the wind, he ran forward to the street and flagged down a cab. "St. Bartholomew's Hospital", John said, shaking the loose water from his coat. The cab moved forward and John stared at the rain drenched city outside the window.

It had taken several months to get this job. Molly Hooper had put in a good word for him, but he had to agree to a series of psych evaluations. Even then, they were reluctant to put him in the emergency room, but he had insisted that he worked best under stress. As a former army medic, they had found this easy to believe, but were worried about triggering PTSD. They were also concerned about his connection to the deceased "criminal mastermind" Sherlock Holmes. Those questions had been the hardest.

Regardless, they eventually decided to give him the job. John lived for the job. It distracted him from everything and made him feel useful. Lestrade had tried to give him an official job with the police as a medical examiner, but John had wanted to distance himself from them as much as possible. Besides, he could not help those who are already dead.

When they arrived, John paid for the cab and made a run for the entrance. Inside, one of the nurses, a middle aged woman with mousy brown hair pulled back in a tight bun approached him.

"Dr. Watson, you're wanted in room 114. There's a woman with a broken wrist and dislocated shoulder. They want you to hurry so that the police can question her for a statement." The woman said, handing him a chart.

"The police?" John asked, glancing over at her.

"Yeah." The woman replied. Together they started walking down the hallway that led to the ER. "She got hurt while attacking this other poor woman. Probably didn't count on her fighting back. The other one is practically unharmed, but they are still checking her for trauma. Poor girl isn't making any sense."

They walked through the doors to their wing. John nodded his thanks to the nurse as she went back behind the service desk while he continued down the hall. He was flipping through the chart, and just before he reached room 114 he looked up and stopped short.

"Lestrade." John tried to hide the shock in his voice.

Lestrade, who had been leaning against the wall, stood up straight and walked forward to greet him. "Good to see you too, Dr. Watson."

"I'm sorry." John regained his composure. "I was just startled. They told me the police would be here, but I wasn't expecting you. You're with homicide. You don't usually show up unless there's a dead body. From what I hear, this woman didn't get that far."

"True, but-"

"But," Donovan interrupted, walking up behind John, followed by Anderson, "I don't think our reasons concern you. You do your job, and we'll do ours."

John tightened his lips into a frown. He had forgotten how condescending Donovan could be. Lestrade shrugged and gave John an apologetic smile.

"Alright." John replied. "It won't take longer than thirty minutes for me to put her in a splint and relocate her shoulder. If everything else checks out, then she'll be all yours."

"Actually, we're really on a tight schedule. Could we talk to her while you wrap her arm in a splint?" Lestrade asked.

"I don't think that's a good idea." Donovan argued, giving John a surly glance. "This interrogation is meant to be confidential."

"For Christ's sake!" Lestrade turned to her, obviously annoyed. "It's Watson. We can trust him not to talk to the press about what he hears. Right?" He turned to John. John nodded. "Fine, then let's just talk to her and be done with it."

Lestrade turned on his heel and walked through the door. Donovan shot Watson a hostile glance. John gave a defeated sigh and followed them through the door.

The first impression John had of the woman sitting on the bed was that she looked hollow, broken. Of course, he didn't know what he had expected. Perhaps eyes alit with madness, wild hair and evil laughter, but he should've known better after spending so much time chasing after psychopaths that they never looked how you would expect. Still, there was something off about her. The rims of her eyes were moist, and they stared at nothing in particular.

John glanced quickly back at his chart, checking her name. "Amy Rorsch," he said, walking to her side. "It appears you have three fractures in you right wrist and a dislocated shoulder. First, I'm going to give you a small injection. It's just an anesthetic that will ease the pain as I reset your shoulder. Then I will wrap your wrist in a splint. While I'm doing this, these people are just going to ask you some questions about what happened. Alright?"

The girl just gave him a blank stare. With that he went about his work.

"Ms. Rorsch , we have several eyewitnesses that saw you attack the victim." Lestrade began, approaching the woman from the opposite side of the bed. "They have given us some very strange accounts of what happened, but they all claim that you were not asking for money. This was not a mugging, and you have no relation to the victim, so tell me… what did you want? Why did you do it?"

The woman turned to Lestrade, her eyes glistening with tears. "I don't know," she whispered, her voice wobbling.

"Are you saying that you are going to claim insanity?" Lestrade asked.

"No, I'm not insane." The girl raised her eyes to Lestrade's face, truly looking at it for the first time. "I remember doing it…I remember seeing myself go at her with a knife. I remember talking to her, talking utter nonsense, but it wasn't me, I swear!" Her voice choked off, shaking, near hysteria. Her arm shook in John's hands, and he could see the rest of her body shaking as well. _With what? _John wondered. _Fear? Despair?_

She took several deep breaths than continued. "I was just out on a milk run. Suddenly the sky got really dark and….and I thought I saw…" She paused, trying to choose her words carefully, but seemingly decided against finishing her thought, "Anyway, I suddenly felt different. I knew what was happening but I had no control over my body."

Donovan and Lestrade exchanged worried looks. The girl continued, "I started going in the wrong direction. Suddenly there was a man walking with me. Kinda short, middle aged, dark hair. He gave me her name, location. He told me to follow her…said to make the message clear, and public. I said 'certainly', it was my voice, but I wasn't the one who said it. I don't even know what he was talking about. Then he was just gone." She looked down at the hand of her good arm that was cuffed to the bed. "I know I sound insane," she whispered. "But you have to believe me."

"Ms. Rorsch, the victim and the witnesses say you collapsed, just shortly before the police arrived, but you have no sign of head trauma, concussion, no history of narcolepsy. Have you had any recent head injuries that might have caused that. Any drug use? Something that could alter your behavior and make you pass out like that?"

"No sir. Nothing. I'm just a primary school teacher. The only drugs I ever take are aspirin when the children are being particularly rowdy. I'm no druggy, and I'm not a violent psychopath. I don't know what I am." She leaned back against the pillows, closing her eyes. She looked utterly defeated, and John felt uneasy. Curiosity buzzed in his brain like tiny sparks of electricity. _No, don't get involved. I don't do this sort of thing anymore_, he reminded himself.

Lestrade got out of his chair and made his way to the door. "I'll let you get healed up. Then there'll be more questions. You'll be given a lawyer and we can arrange a court date."

Finishing the splint and gingerly setting her arm back in her lap, John followed Lestrade into the hallway. "What is going on?" he whispered. "Something is not right, and this has to be more than a simple mugging if you are looking into this. You're with the homicide department."

Lestrade sighed and lowered his head. "None of us know what the bloody hell is going on, John. True, there was no body… this time, but we believe that we were just lucky. We've had four murders John, all committed by different people with no relation to each other, but with very similar…patterns. We've caught all of the culprits, every one. But all of them are saying the same thing as what that woman in there was saying. Some are even saying weirder things. Like being attacked by black smoke. This surviving victim said that her attacker, the woman sitting in that room, that her eyes went completely black right before she passed out, and that when she passed out that she had black smoke pouring out of her mouth. We're saying that she's talking nonsense due to the stress she's been under but….but I don't know…" Lestrade ran one of his hands through his hair. "It seems the whole city is slowly going mad."

Donovan and Anderson walked out of the room and into the hallway. "Let us know when she's fit to be released," Lestrade said, striding away.

John looked back through the door at the woman, who had finally allowed the dams to break in her eyes and twisted on her side so she could sob into the thin hospital pillow. John picked the chart off the end of the bed and silently left the room, locking the door behind him. He was only halfway down the hallway to the main desk when his pager went off. An ambulance was bringing in a new patient.

Quickening his pace, he dropped the chart at the front and made his way to the entrance to meet the EMT's with the stretcher. As they entered the door , John pushed his way to the side to check the man's breathing and pulse.

John's heart stopped and his blood turned to ice. He nearly had to lean against the gurney to support him as his knees nearly gave out. The man was tall and slender, pale, with very distinct cheekbones. One of the nurses, checking for pupillary dilation, lifted one of his eyelids, exposing a pale blue iris.

"Sherlock?" John breathed.

Remembering himself, he quickly gathered his composure. "Who is this?" He asked, trying to hide the wavering in his voice.

"A John Doe. Found in an alleyway off Victoria Street." The EMT replied. "Someone heard a ruckus and found him unconscious. He says it looked like someone had slammed him against the wall like a racquetball."

John placed a hand on his chest. "His breathing is shallow, but he's breathing on his own. I feel at least 3 cracked ribs. Any sign of concussion?" He asked the nurse.

"His pupillary reaction normal, but we can't be sure yet. His vitals are stable."

"Alright. Let's get a quick CT scan to check for internal bleeding. Get Dr. Bracy, he can take it from here." John stepped back and let the stretcher move past. He leaned back against the wall for support. He felt himself breathing quickly, too quickly. His head was reeling, dark spots began swimming in his eyes, making him feel dizzy and nauseous. _I'm having a panic attack. I can't let myself lose it. Not here._ He slowly made his way to the bathroom, as if in a haze. Once he made it he allowed himself to collapse. He drew his knees in to his chest and rubbed his eyes. A strangled gasp escaped him, followed by a sob. He clenched his hand into a fist and bit into in to stop the sound.

_What is going on? I must be dreaming. I must._ But he knew this was a lie. Everything was too vivid. Besides, he had dreamed of seeing Sherlock again hundreds of times, and none of them involved seeing him unconscious on a stretcher. _It's a nightmare then, a cruel nightmare. Letting me see him again only to see him broken._ John bit his fist harder, trying to let the pain wake him up, but he stayed where he was, in a ball on the bathroom floor.

He closed his eyes and took four deep breaths. _One. Two. Three. Four._ Shakily, he found his feet and made his way to the sink. His reflection stared back at him, his face red and blotchy from crying. He turned on the tap and let the cool water run through his fingers. _He's stable. He'll wake up. Just you see. Go back out there and do your job. Wait until he wakes up. He WILL wake up._ He cupped his hands and splashed the water on his face. He stayed there awhile longer, just letting everything sink in.

Finally, he glanced down at his watch. It had been nearly forty minutes. He washed his face one last time and dried it on some paper towels. The redness in his face had faded and now only existed around the rims of his eyes. It would have to do.

He walked back out to the main desk. The nurse who had talked to him earlier that morning gave him a concerned look. "Where have _you_ been? You left in a hurry like you had just seen a ghost."

John gave a small, weak smile, "Yeah, well," He made a sound that sounded like an odd mix of a chuckle and a sob. "I guess I thought I did for a moment. From my army days, y'know."

The nurse didn't ask any questions. John never talked about the time he spent in the army, and she knew he probably didn't want to talk about it now. "Well, no harm done." She smiled at him warmly. "Dr. Bracy took care of everything. The man's woken up and everything. Only a few cracked ribs from the look of his X-rays, and-"

"What!?" John's body stiffened, alert. "He's awake!"

"Yeah." The nurse said startled. "They've moved him out of the ER, but he's still under observation."

"What floor? What room?" John's heart was racing.

"Room 306. Why-?" The nurse started, but John wasn't listening anymore. He was already halfway down the hallway.

"I have to leave. Tell Bracy I'm sorry, but he'll have to cover for me for the rest of the day!" He called over his shoulder. Bracy wouldn't be happy about that, but John didn't care. It was all he could do to keep himself from running.

He stopped at the elevator and pushed the button, but it wasn't coming fast enough. Impatient, John rushed through the doors to the stairwell and took the steps two at a time. _What if it's not him?_ After all, every ounce of logic said that it couldn't possibly him. It was just enough of a resemblance to make John think it was Sherlock. It was impossible for him to have survived. _No. Not impossible. Not for him._ _Not for Sherlock._

He was on the third floor now. His feet moved him forward without his mind giving directions. He was running by this point, nearly crashing into a nurse pushing a cart of clean towels. He didn't stop to apologize. He wouldn't stop for anything.

Then he was at the entrance of room 306. Inside, the man on the bed was saying something to the nurse who was placing an IV line. John couldn't hear what was being said- he couldn't hear anything for the sound of his heart racing in his ears- but saw that the nurse looked like she wanted nothing more than to jab the needle into that man's face. The man's face, meanwhile, had the same subtle, self-contented smirk it always had when showing off his ability to expose someone's deepest secrets and securities with a glance. This man, without a doubt, was Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
